Authors: James Preller

The Fall (13 page)

My jaw hit the floor. I probably stood there, shoulders forward and arms dangling, Neanderthal-like. Grunted, “Ugh?”

Maybe I'll do it. Maybe it is me after all.

This year I've learned to like writing, liking the person I become when I write.

The feeling I got was more important than what I actually (really-really) wrote.

Right hereâon the blank white pageâI'm beginning to see the real me. Does that sound like I think I'm all that? Because I so don't. But I do think that writing things down has helped me see what I really feel. Does that even make sense?

(Doubts, uncertainties. Carry on!)

It's hard to describe, but I don't know what I think until I read my words on the page. I read them back and sometimes I'm like, “Whoa, dude's pissed.”

I might keep going with the writing thing. Who knows? Try to read more, think moreâand by that I mean think more of
my own
thoughts, not a bunch of ideas borrowed from everybody else. My own shit, good or bad.

I grew up thinking that deep down inside me there waited the real boy, huddled in a corner. And if I just chip-chip-chipped away at it, it would be finally revealed: the true me. Like a sculpture made from stone.

Now I think the opposite might be true. We create ourselves out of nothingness, we are flesh and blood only. Sticks and stones and raspberry jam. The real boy is the person I create through my actions. My deeds and my words. The choices I make.

I am Sam.

Sam I am.

The real me is what I do, how I treat youÂ â¦

And youÂ â¦

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â And youÂ â¦

Um. I'll have to puzzle this one out another day. Getting fuzzy, brain's a little scrambled today (like eggs), and there's a zombie apocalypse on television calling my name.

I'm saying only this:

I'll be kinder

Tomorrow.

MR. SMOOTHIE

I'm just about at the end of this journal, a few more pages to go. I'll buy a new one soon and start fresh. But before I close this book, bury it in my dresser, I've got a couple more things to say.

I bumped into Athena at the mall.

Let me say it up front, I'm not a mall guy. My basic policy is, I'd rather not. So if I'm there, it's usually because I got dragged by my mother, or to catch a movie at the Cine 18 with some friends. But if I do go, it's mandatory that I stop for a mango shake at Mr. Smoothie in the food court. I'm addicted to that liquid.

I was with Demarcus and Jeff. We were seated around a table, our trays knocking around like bumper cars. Those guys snarfed burritos. I was happy with my awesome, extra-large mango shake.

Then D said, “Look, there's Athena Luiken. I haven't seen her since she left school last month. She cut her hair wicked short.”

I turned and there she was, sitting on the other side of the food court. She looked different now, paler, thinner, more fragile.

D snorted. “She probably joined the witness protection program. Athena doesn't exist anymore.”

It shook me up, sitting there listening to the bogus hum of their voices. As if they knew anything. It all came rushing back. All the old feelings, images of Morgan, and my anger. After a few numb minutes, my heart contracting like a fist, I saw that Athena and her mother had gathered up their packages and were preparing to leave.

“Hold on a sec,” I told Jeff and D. I stood with my tray in hand.

“Where you going?” Demarcus asked.

“I'll be right back,” I explained, not really explaining at all.

I bypassed the nearest trash can, sailed through a sea of tables, and drifted into Athena's path.

Even at that moment, I didn't know what I would say, or if I'd even say anything. I was tempted to turn away, not acknowledge her. Why was I even waiting here? What was it D said?
Athena doesn't exist anymore
.

I stood there watching, waiting, holding the stupid tray as if it were a sacrificial offering. They came closer, walking side by side. The ghost who used to be Athena listened as her mother talked.

That's when Athena's eyes glanced in my direction. I saw her see me. Something terrible crossed her face, like a dark wind crossing over tall grass. It was a look I'd seen many times before on Morgan's face as she walked down the hallways of school.

Right at that moment, I knew Athena wished she could disappear. Maybe in the same way that Morgan had wished she could disappear.

What did I want from her, after all this time?

I didn't know.

I still don't think I'll ever understand it.

I remembered all those times in school when I looked up and Morgan was suddenly there. How I'd always look away. How I never said a word. How I failed her.

And now here came Athena Luikin, a shopping bag pressed against her chest, her head down, shoulders hunched, trying to appear invisible.

I remembered
The Bell Jar
. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead” was a line that Morgan had underlined in red.

“Hi,” I said.

The word came out dry and brittle, like a dead leaf crumbled in someone's hand.

Athena looked up, startled. She almost smiled, nodded once, and kept walking.

She didn't apologize.

I didn't expect her to.

After all, neither did I.

I see you
.

It wasn't forgiveness exactly, but it was the best I could do.

ONE LAST THING

I had one last thing to do.

I went to Morgan's page online. It was still up, a forgotten site in cyberspace, like a dusty attic in a big house.

I sent an e-mail to the host, explained things as best I could, and requested they shut it down. I scrolled to the beginning and read all the way through. Every anonymous comment.

No one was responsible, yet our fingerprints stained every word.

Die, die, die.

No one cares.

Fat ugly beast.

I opened a new comment box and wrote:

You did not die.

I still see your passing light

In the fireflies

That flicker and fade

Outside my window

In the invincible summer night.

I guess I will remember

Everything.

âyour friend, Sam Proctor

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Preller
is the author of the popular
Jigsaw Jones
mystery books, which have sold more than 10 million copies since 1998. He is also the author of
Bystander
, named a 2009 Junior Library Guild Selection,
Six Innings
, an ALA Notable Book, and
Mighty Casey
, his own twist on the classic poem, “Casey at the Bat.” In addition to writing full-time, Preller plays in a men's hardball league and coaches Little League. He compares coaching kids to “trying to hold the attention of a herd of earthworms.” He lives in Delmar, New York with his wife, three children, cats and dog. You can sign up for email updates
here
.